ice encases his very words
by a ghost in schoolclothes
Summary: and freezes them with a numbing pain as they leave his mouth and hang there, icicles congealing out of thin air.


**Here's another little blurb that popped into my head today. Since my last piece with these two was mediocre at best, I wanted to write something better, and hopefully I've achieved that with this albeit-darker work. :P I recommend having seen Thor and its deleted scenes before reading this, but I suppose it's not entirely neccessary. :P Anyway, I own nothing! Reviews are very much appreciated. **

Since he'd grown up lying, he supposed it made sense that untruths were the very foundation of his life and also the very thing that shook him to the core.

He was made of little more than magic and shadows, his tongue a silvery sinew that he exercised daily, a new tall tale at the ready for any moment, his mouth telling fiction—not nonfiction—and giving breath to things that existed only if he spoke of them. Romance at short notice, of course, was his specialty.

Romance at long notice, however, was apparently Odin's specialty.

()()()

He remembered how it didn't hurt when the frost giant latched its icy fingers around his wrist.

He'd seen what had happened to his friend when another giant had touched him: The flesh turned black, necrotizing and _dying _right there before Volstagg yanked his hand away and called a warning. So when it'd been his own limb in the clutches of the wintry beast, a spike of unconcealed alarm had driven into his chest.

But upon glancing downwards, he realized that the only thing he felt in his arm was _cold, _as if the heat was draining from his forearm, the skin crystallizing until it appeared to be made of the same ice that the royal artists carved eagles and other noble creatures out of at special feasts. He could still bend it, still twitch his fingers and twist his wrist. He was not injured. Only cold.

The frost giant was just as taken aback as he, so he took that opportunity to promptly kill the monstrosity. The warmth slowly seeped back into his hand until it was healthy and _normal _again, and he had no time to ponder the odd occurrence until Thor was banished and he, Sif, and the Warriors Three sat in the healing room.

Volstagg's hand was still regenerating, but his own was functioning as if it'd never been touched. He examined it from every angle, regarding each vein under the surface of his skin and wondering just what had happened until- _Oh. _It clicked.

()()()

Deceit was not, in his defense, the worst crime to be guilty of. Everybody lied, but there was always a purpose. Nobody lied for fun, not even him, and he was adept at it. Contrary to popular belief, he lied for experimentation: If he said _this, _would Thor's reaction be the same as Sif's? Would Frigga's be the same as Odin's? What about if he said _that? _Then what? He was only interested in results.

(And maybe it was a _little _fun to toy with people, too. See, he lied again-right there.)

But somehow when Odin lied it was unforgivable. It was awful, it was treacherous, it was horrible, it was downright _disgusting-_almost as disgusting as him. The frost giant. The son of _Laufey. _

The coldness spread right down to his heart, chilling him to the bone and freezing his blood and dashing snow into his veins. Ice encases his very words and freezes them with a numbing pain as they leave his mouth and hang there, icicles congealing out of thin air.

Remember that monstrosity earlier? The one he kicked and killed and tricked?

He is that monstrosity. He is _one of them. _

()()()

From there, the lies continue. They pour from his lips like a (frozen) waterfall, until he is the _king, _augmented to a throne of illusions by these deceitful acts and short-notice romances that are quickly intertwining like a web. He is the spider at the center of that web, a web of lies that he spins constantly, and with each word that rolls of his silver tongue, another petty insect falls victim.

Does he feel a thing?

No. It's too cold to function.

()()()

When they catch him on Midgard, the first thing they do is _close his mouth. _

It's understandable. It's his greatest weapon. No, forget that—his _mind_ is his greatest weapon. It creates the stories while the mouth just feeds them to the ears of the gullible, the ears of the people he should have ruled.

He is rather annoyed at this silencing gesture. Especially because Stark keeps talking to him, asking what he'd like to drink while knowing full well he cannot speak back and Thor is looking at him with pity.

Does he need pity? Not a bit.

But he's cold. He's really cold. The thought of going back to Asgard, going back to the man he once called his father, going back to receive a punishment when all he wanted was to feel like he deserved to be something above a _monster (_something called a _king) _only reinforces the frosty glaze over his soul.

He wraps his lies around him like a blanket and longs to feel warmth, but there is only cold, the cold he has known for such a long time now, and he shivers as he and Thor shoot back into space.

()()()

Odin puts him in a cell for a day while he decides on a fitting punishment. He is kind enough to allow the mouthpiece off, which is a relief to his not-son's chapped lips and dry tongue.

He slumps in the corner, the gray stones not entirely uncomfortable beneath him, but since he is sore and bruised from recent beatings upon Midgard, he despises it. He despises that he was to be a king (and if not that, he was still a prince), but he is treated like any other prisoner, stripped of magic and apparently stripped of title. Is he not special? He was, after all, going to be Odin's prized political tool. That should mean _something_, shouldn't it?

He spits at the thought, scoffing.

A guard comes into his cell. Heavy footsteps follow before the reinforced door slides shut again.

"Father said that while he decides your punishment, I can visit you," Thor says.

From his corner, he says nothing. He doesn't look up. Thor is silent as well, but after a moment, he is, as expected, the first to speak again.

"Do you feel no remorse?"

It's a ploy. A strategy used to uncover information. He would know. He often answered with questions, questioned with answers, confused his subject until the truth was revealed and he could then twist it to his will. The best lies, of course, stemmed from truth. Perhaps that was why Odin's worked so well.

He looks up and meets Thor's eyes. "Will it grant me points with _Daddy _if I say no? If I tell you that I am _sorry?" _His words are harsh. They bite like the winds of Jotunheim. They chill like the touch of a frost giant. He knows that Thor visited for information. It is not even remotely possible that he is still loved.

Thor's gaze softens in a look that would be heartbreaking if his heart hadn't already frozen over. "Are you?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," he hisses back, gaining his feet and using the wall for support as he straightens; a cobra ready to strike. "Whether I felt or did not feel remorse is irrelevant. I will be punished regardless of anything I tell you."

Thor blinks. Finally his eyes harden and he speaks gruffly, anxiously, fretfully now, "Yes, but perhaps if you tell me that you are regretful, Father will ease the punishment or shorten the sentence or-"

It is almost funny. Thor is asking him to lie. Thor, who has always frowned upon trickery and fabrications, is asking his not-brother to lie. Normally this wouldn't be a problem—lies are commonplace for him; prosaic, even—but this breach of Thor's moral capacity interests him, so he reacts in the only way he knows how: bitterly.

"Why do you even _care_?" he seethes out.

"Because you are my brother and I love you!" Thor bellows. When he looks up, his eyes have broken and pooled into blue ponds again in a sad, apologetic look that has been cast towards the god of mischief often recently. "I do not wish to see you in pain! Blood relation or not, we were raised together, and that means something to me if not to you!"

He cannot speak. There is something foreign in his body, something Thor's words have touched that he has not been able to reach himself for two years. Desolation cloaks him still, rendering him immobile, but his chest has gone hollow and he can barely breathe. His heart beats once, a short, quaking burst that startles him into silence.

Thor breathes heavily, then reaches over and clamps his hand upon his brother's shoulder. "You told me once, before my ruined coronation, that you thought me your brother and your friend. And that I should never doubt that you love me."

The flicker comes again, prodding at unfamiliar terrains that are barren frozen wastelands and arctic plains.

"I can say the same for you, Loki," Thor says.

There is a certain kind of sincerity in Thor's eyes that he thinks has never been present in his own, a special truthfulness to Thor's words that never resounds in his own, and an odd sort of warmth in Thor's touch that has long since abandoned his cold, cold fingers.

And then he feels it—a warmth in his chest. He almost stops breathing; it's a distant feeling, alien in his ice-riddled body, but it's there, and it's growing. The warmth blossoms: Bursting into being and extending its affectionate reach throughout his whole body. He is tingling from head to toe at the renewed feeling of being _cared about. _

He looks up at Thor, looking at the unbridled fondness in his (not-but does that really matter anymore?) brother's eyes, and wonders how the elder god could be so blind. After all, he has done atrocious things: He has threatened countless lives, nearly wiped out an entire race, and he would have subjugated the humans had it not been for his unceremonious defeat. And yet Thor forgave him? Was this what _unconditional _felt like?

Thor steps forward and embraces him, and he allows himself to thaw out. His heart beats again, more rapidly now, palpitations warming his chest as the ice melts away.

()()()

He is warm for the shortest amount of time possible, it seems.

()()()

As punishment, Odin deposits him in Jotunheim.

It is possibly the cruelest thing the Allfather could've imagined. He would've rather died. He would've rather been sent back to Midgard and repeatedly humiliated again. He would've rather rotted in the Asgardian dungeons—at least then his brother would visit him.

The repaired Bifrost swallows itself behind him, casting him into the snowy realm he'd hoped he would never set foot in again. The ice crunches beneath his feet and he remembers how he had once kneeled between worlds, dropping to the ground on one knee and reemerging in a new realm like a phoenix from ashes. Now he stumbles to catch himself, feet unsteady and lungs gathering shallow breaths.

He can barely breathe. He can't believe he's here, he can't believe he's here, he can't believe he's _here_. There is nothing but an icy desert splayed out in front of him, and in the far distance, the Jotun kingdom glares threateningly, disparaging anyone who would dare to traipse towards it. And then he remembers that this is where he _belongs. _He lets out a whimper, a whiny, weak sound that escapes from his lips before he can stop it as he puts his hands to his head and drops to his knees.

And then he begins to cry because he can feel himself freezing again.


End file.
